


First

by moth2fic



Category: Rome
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is 'first' on the street, in the city, in the bedroom? A power struggle between friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First

**Author's Note:**

> This story uses characters from the BBC/HBO portrayal of the fall of the Roman Republic. They are not mine, they are borrowed for fun, not profit, and no copyright infringement is intended. Some of the characters, of course, although only mentioned in passing here, belonged to themselves and Rome, and changed the course of history.
> 
> Note 1: the term 'brother' is used in the sense of brothers-in-arms; the men are not siblings.
> 
> Note 2: I have used the names given in the TV series; for example, 'Mark Antony' is obviously an Anglicised version but I thought it better to stick with my chosen 'canon'.
> 
> Many thanks to margaret_r for her beta work.

Legions and collegia. Loaves and fishes. The phobias and fancies of pregnant women. Titus Pullo was tired of them all. He was also tired of tiptoeing round Lucius Vorenus as if either the man himself or their friendship, too rudely knocked, might break.

The house smelled of fish and Eirene was welcome to her nostalgia. Her 'preglancy', too, and the priests who made her withdraw from her husband. Hadn't he fathered the babe in the first place? Why couldn't foreigners pronounce Latin properly? Why did barbarian priests disapprove of sex, even within marriage? What was a man to do? The slave girl Gaia was no substitute - she was just a fuck, a pretty slut; he could slap her or shaft her without any connection other than the necessary touch of skin on skin. Vorenus, he suspected, was somehow aware of the kind of beating he had administered as master, when Gaia had disrespected Eirene. Just as Vorenus himself seemed unable to administer any punishment to the girl. Just as he, in turn, was horribly aware of teenage Vorena's sly love affair that might yet break her father's heart if not her own. Aware, too, of the reliance she placed in her aunt and the priests, rather than her father. The slave camps had given up the children but left a new set of problems. Secrets upon secrets. A man should be able to march through the world like a soldier on duty, not forced to slink around this subject and that like a feral cat in the agora.

The legion, it seemed, was off without them, once more. With Nescius away supervising the grain shipments at Ostia, there would be all too many tasks on the Aventine for him to be spared, even without the burden of prospective fatherhood. Antony and Caesar, reconciled, doubled Vorenus's commitment and it would be politic to remain in Rome. Politic, too, to stay out of sight, doing Caesar's bidding quietly. It would be better if everyone forgot they had seen Sevilia leaving the house of Atia of the Julii, blood streaking her face and curses striking the earth. Women, again. Even after the marriage it might be safer to steer clear of Antony and his new brother-in-law, Octavian Caesar.

He cursed and went up to see what Vorenus wanted.

On the way, he leaned hard on the new rails and drew back in irritation when they creaked and wavered. Were there no decent carpenters to be had? The house had been well built at first, but since their fight the mending had been botched and shoddy. A builder had looked to please the chief with a quick job, giving skimped service and hoping not to be caught. He reflected that their friendship was stronger than the railings. Their fight over Niobe after her death had ended with a great deal of damage to the house and almost none to their brotherhood. He wasn't sure whether Vorenus still believed he, Pullo, had fucked Niobe, but in all other matters, he knew his friend trusted him.

Lucius Vorenus wanted a sounding board for his plans. For Octavian Caesar's plans. More talk of money and handouts to the poor. Peace, happiness and the contented masses. Vorenus couldn't, it seemed, see that pigs might take wing over the forum before contentment became a Roman way of life. Or perhaps the sacred geese might swim down the Tiber and head for Africa, leaving a less quarrelsome population in their wake. Pullo listened. A good second should always listen. They drank together, toasting the new, fragile amity of the collegia. Vorenus didn't think it was fragile. Pullo knew better.

But he drank anyway, because he had nothing better to do, because his friend should not drink alone, and because the wine, a good Falernian, was too enticing, leading him into byways of thought and feeling that he ought to have suppressed but could, for the life of him, not.

He accepted a double helping of assignments, his own, as second, and those that by rights belonged to the absent Nescius as third. His chief seemed relieved and they drank some more. Vorenus turned morose and self pitying. The conversation veered, as always, to Niobe and her betrayal. Titus Pullo was impatient, tired of the endless arguments.

"She thought you dead. With good reason. How could that be a betrayal? Tell me!"

"She could have waited."

"How long? Till she and the children joined you in the underworld? She truly believed you dead, brother. And you were in no position to disillusion her. Don't hark back to those memories. You have the children back and you are still young. A fine catch for some Roman girl... Or for a slave. I did all right, didn't I?" As he spoke he wondered idly if Vorenus had treated Gaia as he had, if that was the reason for the sudden coolness he'd sensed after the 'beating'.

"You? You have Eirene to worry about now, and the child. Soon you'll be less casual in your attitude towards marriage and responsibilities. Less inclined to fuck what is not yours."

"Not this again. How often have I told you that I never laid a finger on Niobe? How often have you said you believed me?"

"Never laid a finger, no. I said 'inclined'. You wanted to. I saw the sex in your eyes when you visited us. Sometimes in your tunic, too." How to answer?

Rashly, tired of pretence, he determined to tell his friend the truth.

"I never wanted Niobe," he paused and with a half formed sense of self preservation checked the immediate area for weapons before continuing. Then he let their eyes meet, his own proud and resolute.

"I never wanted Niobe," he repeated. "You, now. That field I would have ploughed from our first meeting." There, it was out and could not be taken back or explained away.

Lucius Vorenus simply stared. His eyes opened wide in shock and for a moment he resembled a statue, a Greek god, perhaps, or one of the Etruscans. Not, at any rate, a heavy, Roman senator.

Then he made a low sound somewhere between a growl and a roar and sprang at Titus Pullo, who moved aside in time to avoid the brunt of the collision, but nevertheless fell, dragging his attacker with him. They fought. The part of his mind that wasn't concentrating on avoiding serious injury to himself or his friend pointed out that a fight was inevitable and that he was a fool. A romantic fool. And justly served for his idiotic announcement. Then all of him was trying to disengage from well-aimed fists and feet. Thought fled. So did concerns for safety.

The balcony railings were as badly mended as the ones that lined the stairs. The combatants fell against them and tumbled over into the main room, narrowly missing a table. Somehow, Vorenus was still conscious. Perhaps he'd drunk enough to let himself land softly. Pullo's fall was broken by the body of his opponent and he lay on top of Vorenus, disinclined to move.

Pullo, bigger and stronger than his friend, easily defeated an attempt to dislodge him, and held Lucius Vorenus's wrists pinned to the floor. He hoped the stones had done no permanent damage to the quick brain and devious mind beneath the fair hair. They lay there, panting. Pullo felt Vorenus's body gradually relax. He suspected a trap and tightened his hold, but the look in the light eyes changed, gentled. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the floor, of the grain of the stone, of the splinters of railing near them and of the spilled wine that puddled in a slight hollow. Aware, too, of the silence and of the considering gaze fastened on him. And above all, wildly aware of the man beneath him and of his own uncontrollable response to their closeness.

Without thinking he leaned down and kissed the hard mouth. He could feel the slight stubble on the angular cheeks. He tasted fish, honey and sour wine. He tried to insert his tongue and found his own lips nipped sharply so that he tasted blood but didn't draw back. Then there was a hiatus, a stillness, a change of atmosphere that he felt but could not have described. All he knew was that the lips opened, welcoming his kiss.

He risked loosening his iron hold on one wrist and moved his hand down the hard body, stroking carefully over ribs and flank, as if petting a war horse before battle. The thighs beneath his own were sculpted marble. He savoured the coveted mouth and enjoyed the feel of the toned muscles, so much more to his taste than Gaia's voluptuous beauty or Eirene's delicate softness. A soldier for a soldier. Sensations that recalled metal, leather and homecoming after a long march.

Once he was certain that his own erection was matched in truth, not just in wishful thinking, he let go of the other wrist and got to work, fingers searching beneath the short tunic, running up the inside of the thighs, tracing the erect cock and moving gently beneath the heavy sacs towards the desired goal. Apart from a quick gasp which he could not quite interpret, he met no resistance, no further tendency to fight. Vorenus was shivering, the cold of the floor combining with new desire to create ripples in the smooth skin and a tremor in the hands that helped instead of fighting. Pullo murmured to him, soothing nonsense that encouraged the exploring fingers and elicited another kiss. Their cocks were crushed almost painfully together; they needed to move, at least a little. The chief seemed content to let him take the lead but he raised himself cautiously, still not convinced his partner would not take the advantage and escape. Reassurance was absolute when a pair of strong legs rose and wrapped themselves around his waist. He needed no further invitation.

Fingers dripping with wine scooped from the floor invaded, and were welcomed. Then he found a pile of olives, knocked from the table by their fall, slippery with oil. There was a great deal of garlic, too. The oil would have to do. If they smelled like something from the kitchens they would at least both smell alike and he had always thought Lucius Vorenus looked good enough to eat.

Vorenus apparently thought the same about him. His shoulders were being nibbled, licked, tasted, wherever they could be reached. He repositioned himself to allow easier access. He thought his skin might glow or even sparkle like fireflies and his chest hair stood almost on end with pride and delight. He slicked his cock with the oil and sought Vorenus's opening, trying to be careful, slow, gentle. He almost succeeded but a whimper of pleasure had him thrust, hard and confident, and then glory in the opposing thrust from his lover. No reluctance, now. Fleetingly, he wondered what had wrought the change then contented himself with enjoying it.

It was over quickly. He had wanted this too long to be subtle or to make the magic last. His partner was overcome with the newness, perhaps of the idea as well as the fact. Vorenus came with a cry torn from the back of his throat, and a spasm of all his muscles that in turn brought Pullo to his own climax, grunting as he poured his seed into the depths of the man he adored. He allowed himself to sink back onto the slight, hard cushioning of Vorenus's belly, ignoring the stickiness and managing another quick kiss.

They were unmoving for a while, then Pullo made another mistake.

"Mine," he whispered, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. Lucius Vorenus was not so easily possessed. A rapid heave and they were fighting again, rolling in the olives and the garlic, their skin prickling with breadcrumbs from the unswept floor. Again, Titus Pullo's superior physique prevailed and for a while they were both fucking and fighting. Caresses alternated with blows, breath coming rapidly, raggedly, their cocks engaged in a kind of warfare, their feet struggling to kick. Pullo, always just about in charge, led the action from fight to fuck until Vorenus gave in and they slid against each other. Cocks already hard again, rubbing together, they reached a delicious epiphany that ended in sated stillness.

He looked at the man he'd just fucked and thought that if Caesar could be declared a god then this, surely, was a deity worthy of his worship. Even in the army camps, where such extensions of friendship were common, he'd never dared. Now, he was curiously glad he'd waited. Despite the uncomfortable surroundings, victory was sweet.

Vorenus was the first to be aware of the boy, standing at the edge of the ruined balcony, watching them.

"Are you fighting again? Was it about my mother? Shall we need the carpenter?" He sounded curious rather than distressed, and had the sense not to lean out into the room below.

"Just wrestling. Practising. We rolled too near the edge. Go back to bed." The child's eyes expressed disbelief but at least he hadn't seen what their fight entailed. Both men knew the children's experiences in the slave camp had left them wise to adult ways; if he had noticed them fucking he would have said so.

Both sensed that their altered relationship would be better kept a secret. Pullo did not trust the boy not to tell his sister, or Vorena not to tell her lover and by that route the whole of the Aventine. Vorenus wanted to retain the dignity of the pater familias, father to the boy by choice if not in fact. Titus realised he didn't care if Eirene found out. Or Gaia. Except that they in turn would noise it abroad and for Vorenus's concerns he found he cared a lot.

The child disappeared and they heard his footsteps diminish into the inner quarters. Both men were sitting now, amongst the debris of their fight and their fierce coupling. Pullo brushed crumbs from Vorenus's chin then licked a smear of oil from his nose. Vorenus leaned towards him so that they sat with their arms around each other, and laid his head on Pullo's shoulder.

"Wrestling," Pullo said. "For a crown of olives, I suppose. Or for the honour of being first."

Vorenus looked up, expressive eyes hardening. "Never that. You're my second, Titus Pullo."

"On the Aventine, yes. In bed?"

"We aren't exactly in bed." The eyes were rueful now and the lips turned down as Vorenus surveyed his shattered upper storey.

"We could be. But the children might come out. And Gaia."

Vorenus didn't answer. "I was wrestling," he said, as if practising some sort of statement or defence, "Wrestling with my second. That's one of his appointed tasks."

"If it had been Nescius?" There was laughter in Titus Pullo's voice as he recalled the pushy third's attempt to take over after being in charge while they rescued the children.

"Never Nescius!" Vorenus was laughing too. "Always you. My second on the Aventine as in the legion. First in my heart. And now..." He looked into Pullo's eyes and admitted, "First in bed, though first of all you'd have to get me there!"

"Then why...?"

"I thought you mocked me. Thought you'd seen my need. Thought you'd preferred Niobe."

"Never."

"We need a couch down here. One that's safe from wine and garlic. With a shelf for a jar of oil. Something sweeter scented." Vorenus sniffed his lover's hair and wrinkled his nose then dropped a kiss on each of the eyelids.

Pullo shivered with pleasure at the unexpected gesture. "I'll see to it tomorrow. One of a second's tasks. Meanwhile, your farts will smell of garlic."

"So you will be the one to suffer most." Vorenus grinned, and suddenly they were both laughing like boys, young again, without the cares of the Aventine or the legion.

"You could find a carpenter, too," Vorenus said, when he could speak again. "Not the same one."

"He did a rotten job," Pullo agreed, "But if he hadn't, we wouldn't have landed as we did. Sometimes one can be grateful for poor workmanship."

"And for my temper, that led to the fight."

"I thought it was my confession that did that."

"That too. If I'd known, all along..."

"We'd still have fought. About something or other. And at some point the balcony would have fallen."

"Perhaps." Vorenus rose and stretched, then as Pullo rose too, he rubbed against him, marking his territory. They straightened their tunics and exchanged an almost formal kiss. Titus Pullo watched his friend, his lover, his chief, as he climbed the stairs to the ruined bedchamber. Then he went back to Eirene's lukewarm bed and to thoughts of how to find a trustworthy builder in Rome.


End file.
